


Stigmata on his left palm, sunburst crown on his brow

by cartographicalspine



Series: The Meek [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 11:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12911385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartographicalspine/pseuds/cartographicalspine
Summary: The wrath of heaven, in the eyes of a former commissioned officer from the Trevelyan forces and witness to the rise of the controversial Inquisition and its Herald of Andraste.Or how cousins Marlise and Erzi Trevelyan joined the Inquisition.





	Stigmata on his left palm, sunburst crown on his brow

_Herald of Andraste._

They speak it like a tribute, a reverent, breathless title on their lips whenever he passes through the parting crowd (always parting, always that holy fear of heaven). Without fail, their savior’s presence draws deep-seated pauses in the bustle around Haven and then, afterwards, leaves only apprehensive whispers and stares in his wake.

Is it the dual brands on him, signaling him out from among the multitude? The way the Chant falls constant from his lips, the haunted fire in his eyes?

They cannot really say, but isn’t that sort of thing to be expected from the messenger of their faith? Prophets and suffering walk hand in hand, or so it goes. He is theirs, and they love and fear him as only the faithful can with someone burning in the Maker’s living flame. A distant warmth in their hearts, but never breached in person for fear of the pain. He never looks their way, in any case, and that’s probably to be expected, too. Better the otherworldly distance than the heat of his gaze.

Marlise used to wonder what the weight of holy calling looked like upon Andraste herself; sometimes, when she looks at him, she almost thinks she can see the answer.

* * *

He is a constant red fire within himself and seldom goes out among those gathered in Haven. All the better, honestly, though it disappoints the more curious and devoted of the populace. The Herald of Andraste has yet to actually address anyone, even if an Inquisition has been called in his name. Oh, the advisory council vehemently denies this but Marlise has heard the whispers in the encampments. It is he who commands the rifts and the Fade; it is he who holds the power to vanquish the foul magic and chaos that threatens them all.

It is he who rages behind closed doors, as far from Haven’s pilgrims and mourners as is possible, a wreckage  _this_ close to falling apart that it shakes Marlise to her bones. She’s seen her modest share of campaigns, and the Conclave was a battlezone in its own right. But trying to keep Andraste’s Herald from devouring himself is like trying to cradle a hungry inferno within bare hands in hopes that it won’t burn through them all. No, best that he remain ambiguity and aloofness.

He swings through emotions like a pendulum, hitting the equilibrium point in blessed crashes that give them all a respite. A moment to breathe as he drowns. And then the upward swing again, and then something else shatters against the wall. One of the little figures on the war table, this time. Ambassador Montilyet has thankfully learned to keep her expensive writing supplies out of his reach.

On to the next missives...no, he doesn’t want to wander the Hinterlands to find the strange Revered Mother. He doesn’t want to find the grand horsemaster either. He definitely doesn’t want to spend any more time in the Chantry as of this very second.

The Herald storms out of the makeshift war room, seething and burning under his skin, and woe to anyone who crosses paths with him. Marlise looks apologetically at the council’s tight-lipped expressions and excuses herself to trail after him. Just moments later, he’s back inside, trembling like a leaf and barely able to withstand the strength of his own sobs. He can’t stand the guilt and the anger and  _Maker he can’t think through this headache._

It’s been a month now for this one.

They know not to touch him; the slightest brush is agony and violence and he has been known to lash out even when the calm hits. Instead, they let him draw out the words alone, though they’re the same each time. He’s drowning in fire, he’s bursting at the seams, he’s screaming in the Void and no one is listening.

He can’t do this anymore.

That’s not true, of course, and they offer the only platitudes that help now. A draught to pass the hours away and a trip out to some rifts nearby. Oblivion and release, if temporary. But the bracers stay on.

A few hours where the mark on his brow is unperturbed by a scowl, a few hours where he’s unaware of the fire beneath his skin. Marlise wishes they could give him more than that. (Even Andraste had a sword of mercy, when all else was gone.)

She knows, when she rises early for morning prayer, that he’s been pacing the rest of the night, all desperation and agitation, hounded by whatever came with him through the Fade.

When she idly lets that thought slip around him, a foolish, heedless thing indeed, he gives her a withering glare over the table, over clenched fists.

“I didn’t want to go, I didn’t want to come back, and I didn’t want any of it to follow me. I used to be able to survive.”

Marlise cannot stop herself from replying, even after she thinks it through carefully. Yes, he suffers, but he’s still here. She imagines steel within her spine and opens her mouth. “Haven’t you noticed? You  _are_ surviving.”

The phrase  _in pain_ goes unspoken, and he’s on his feet with a slam of his hands against the table, and then he’s gone from the hall.

The first rays of light creep their way through the open door, but she’s already seen the sun in red on his brow.

* * *

It used to be worse, before.

Lucky, then, that by the time they reached the valley, everyone was either dead or had long fled downward. She isn’t sure how they would have handled it otherwise.

He fought them every step of the way, nothing but an agonized knot of renewed Fade-links and emotions. The apostate, Solas, had gone absolutely grey-faced with the effort, but he never once flagged. Even when the Chancellor half-shrieked, half-demanded that they slay the abomination, he kept his vice-like grip on her cousin’s arm, willing a shroud of eerie serenity around them both. Without him, Erzi would have done worse than shatter the table when the next green pulse came.

 _Kill that thing_ , Roderick hissed from the rubble next to a steely-eyed Leliana.  _Maker above us, where are the Templars?_

 _He’s not possessed,_ Marlise remembers wanting to say, but just then Cassandra wrenched Erzi’s other wrist and forced him to his knees. A different sort of stillness rippled through them, and he fell as silent as that awful not-magic.

Everyone turned to her.

Somehow, they reached the Temple, and she hadn’t been able to shake the thought of an altar and sacrifice when he knelt at the center. The demons took care of her distracted thoughts, and commands came quite mercifully from Seeker Pentaghast. All other focus had slipped from her fingers, but she could still take orders and fight.

He’d screamed and screamed and screamed, both him and the Breach on and on for so long until she was certain he would die. He  _was_ dying, much like Andraste, his screaming drowned out by the roaring Fade so that she could have believed he’d gone silent.

When he fell, finally, she felt the ugliest, most twisted relief that at least he couldn’t feel anything anymore.

* * *

They reach the new rift that morning; he’s all but delirious, tearing at his arms like they’re on fire, oh and now they are, the poor abused bracers cast to the snow behind him. They don’t even make it through the first wave of demons before he ignites.

Once, somewhere on the Minanter, Marlise broke bread with the commander of a fellow company in the middle of a bustling camp. She told him about the sea beasts dancing deep in the open waters far off Ostwick; in turn, he shared his own monster stories about the Saarebas up in the north, wretched creatures that were once mages.

The Herald is what she imagines they’d look like, all raw, destructive power and desperation, beyond anyone’s reach right now. Magic, suppressed energy for a month now, surfaces until the very air crackles with it. And then it explodes, and the others have pulled back now, shields and weapons and barriers placed between  _him_ and  _them_.

He really does look Andraste’s servant now, she thinks, sheathed in flames and divinity.

Cassandra, braced down nearby, shoots her a hard look. Marlise watches the demons boil and smolder away in brilliant light before she rises to strike a stray shade licking at her shadow. The Seeker may disapprove, but he’s effective at razing the field clear for them. More importantly, this is when he can best breathe.

But it’s not in line with the Chantry and the Circle and the Templars. No wonder they’re heretics now.

The apostate, Solas, grabs his wrist in the lull between the pulses and brings it to the rift. He’s the only one who dares to draw close without injury, and she marvels at the patience and control he has amidst that hellish rage. She’s seen him direct the Herald with a gesture or touch as surely as breathing. It reminds her of the Saarebas and their handlers, and she toys with the idea of bringing that up with him later. What would he have to say about that?

They aren’t close, beyond the mutual link in the Herald, so she tucks it away for another time.

When the rift screeches shut, the Herald falls with it, along with a terrible, profound silence.

* * *

 He burns himself out too quickly. No control, focus, or discipline. Too much of one thing, not enough of another, is the spymaster’s assessment. Overwhelmed, their ambassador soothes, trying to spin the Inquisition’s resident embarrassment into a pristine picture even if it means sweeping it under the rug.

A danger. The commander glowers at their protests and will not be moved. The Herald is nothing but the threat of violence that stems from untrained, unchecked magic; they’re too lenient with him.

He doesn’t say  _abomination_ but Marlise sees the fear in his eyes and leaves before she reads anything else in them.

* * *

She coaxes the key from sweet, awkward Flissa and buries her hands in powdery dough and preserved fruits. She loses herself in simple steps, sticky preparation, and waiting.

Cullen’s dark gaze returns to her in the quiet.

He’s not wrong, but it hurts. She has to remind herself that she might be the one person Erzi has left now that the world is ending. The others...they worry after and care for and fear him from a distance, but she held him as a baby and kissed his demons away every night since she learned that demons existed. She loves him along  _with_ all the bad things, not in spite of them. Only  _she_ wept when they carved him hollow and would once more if they ever do it again.

The old countertop’s edge cracks in half beneath her hand, and she swears inwardly.

“Anyone there?”

Varric’s easy-going drawl saunters through the silence in the tavern. "I thought I smelled something baking.... it's late. Why are you baking a pie so  _late?"_

Marlise eases the countertop back and hopes it holds long enough to get replaced. She turns to see the dwarf’s frame illuminated by the moonlight.

“I want to surprise him when he wakes,” she explains, and then a lithe, elegant silhouette is lighting a new lamp next to her. It helps a little more, now that she’s not alone in the room.

Solas’ quiet eyes watch her closely as she clears away the bowls and utensils; she steps over Varric’s legs as he sprawls smugly in the closest chair. “Has he woken? I have yet to see him…”

“Eat? No, I suppose you wouldn’t. He barely does anything more than pace or sleep.”  _Or scream._

“Still?” Varric sighs, uncharacteristically tugging his coat closed around his chest. “It’s gotta end sometime, right? The poor kid’s always at a breaking point.  _Shit, it’s cold.”_

She beckons him towards the fire’s warmth. “I’m surprised you’ve only just noticed.”

“I’m more surprised that he did,” Solas smiles, running a hand along the counter until he finds a stretch that might hold if he leans against it. “I was certain nothing could penetrate that magnificent chest hair.”

Marlise gives a little snort-laugh, and Varric is wheezing to keep from outright howling.

Solas shrugs a little,  _too tired_ is his excuse, but he’s still smiling under the faint flush. Anything is easier than thinking about the disaster outside, or the one brewing within their humble encampment.

She’s grateful for them, for the moment of peace that they give her.

* * *

As soon as she catches the first signs and whispers, she takes Erzi by the hand and abandons Haven to the snow and ruin. Bad enough that they want to throw him at the Breach again, that they clamp his magic down until he’s ripping himself open just to breathe.

She cannot look into a pair of emotionless eyes beneath a sunburst brand again.

So she gathers up silently and quits the camp with him, skirting villages and hamlets and the Inquisition; she’s lived this breakneck pace before and doesn’t mind it because maybe they  _can_ outrun all of this if they just-

“Marlise, stop.”

He’s spoken for the first time since that rift that he turned into a smoking crater before the villagers. Always so soft-spoken, even now.

But his eyes are clear with certainty. “Who else will? It’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

Marlise tries not to cry. “They’re going to-”

“That night you brought me down from the temple, you kissed me and thanked Andraste. You think she’s the one who sent me.” Erzi shivers like he’s on fire again, hands itching at those things on his wrists. “If you really believe that, then let me choose. Let me stay.”

Fire crackles beneath his skin, but he’s breathing just fine. “I want to.”

This is when she begins to learn that the things he wants are dangerous, things that will always hurt him. He will know no other way for the rest of his life. But she’s loved him since he was a too-small baby in her arms, she’s kissed his tiny fingernails and wiped away his tears and grown along beside him. She taught him to speak and read and write, and she learned true happiness and heartbreak through him. His smile is hers. What else can she do?

Slowly, feeling like she’s at the start of a new campaign, all trepidation and resolve, Marlise nods and rises to her feet. She turns, to absolutely no surprise, to Varric and Solas standing in the distance, at the crest of the hill. Cassandra hovers at their side.

Marlise refuses to look at the advisors behind them.

“Behold, the cavalry,” she says, half-calling. “Are you coming?”

Solas is the same serene, knowing presence when he rejoins them, but at the same time there’s relief in his eyes. Varric just sighs gustily and rolls his shoulders, waving the Inquisition off back to Haven. “Is this shit always going to be so dramatic, or is this just Tuesdays for you?”

She laughs and cries until she stops seeing the pity in the advisors’ eyes, and then she laughs and cries upon seeing the warmth in his eyes. Patiently, so patiently, he waits for her, and she wonders when they switched places so thoroughly and finitely.

Hoarsely, she asks her Herald where to go.


End file.
